


Noble Work

by A (AILiSeki)



Category: A Series of Unfortunate Events - All Media Types, A Series of Unfortunate Events - Lemony Snicket, Snicketverse
Genre: Betrayal, Canon-Typical Violence, Fire, Gen, Grief, Kidnapping, Loneliness, canon compliant character death(s), canon typical crimes, the usual vfd stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-25
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2019-04-07 18:35:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14087088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AILiSeki/pseuds/A
Summary: You never chose this life. But you can't escape from it.





	Noble Work

**Author's Note:**

> The POV character of this story is not someone specific, but all volunteers of this generation (the adults of ASOUE). Some sentences apply to all of them, some to only a few, some to one.

It's a night like any other. Your parents put you and your siblings to bed. The night is dark and quiet.

Until it isn't. You hear it, weak, but it's there, unmistakable there. It reminded you of a wolf's howl, or of a car's engine. Of a snake, or of a crow, or a cricket. Of pages being turned or of a match being lit.

You call your mother with a quiet voice.

Your father turns to you with a furrowed brow.

"What was that?"

You always had an inquisitive mind. Your parents always praised it and gladly answered your questions. They don't seem happy now.

"It's nothing."

You can't accept this answer. There's never nothing. Your parents were the ones to teach you that. You should notice something was wrong. You don't.

"If there's nothing out there, what is this noise?"

For a moment, your father seems lost in a memory.

Your mother looks out of the window. You never saw her looking so sad.

You don't understand.

"Go to sleep, dear."

A kiss on your forehead. The lips seem to linger for a little longer than normal.

Your father caresses your hair.

"No matter what happens, remember we love you."

Without thinking, you nod. You know your parents love you. You don't think of what could happen, you can't possibly imagine what could happen.

You drift to sleep. You don't know your parents won't be getting any sleep tonight. Soon, neither will you. 

* * *

 

Years later, you will put together the blurry memories you have of your childhood in your parents' home, and realize you should have noticed.

You never knew where your family's money came from. With your parents' jobs- what were their jobs? They never had a routine, did they? Often, one of them left and wouldn't be back for days. It was normal for you and your siblings, you couldn't see the worry in the eyes of the parent that stayed.

Just as you never saw how uneasy they were on cold days. You and your siblings played near the fireplace, enjoying the warmth and watching the beautiful dance of the flames. They told you to be careful, and you were. You thought you understood why. Fire could hurt, but you knew not to touch it. They didn't need to worry so much. Your parents watched you, fear in those eyes that have seen too much.

One day, you will understand.

But you don't think of the mysteries of your childhood right now. You think only of the mystery currently surrounding you.

You are sleepy and scared. You and your siblings were taken by people you don't know to this small, poorly illuminated room. Two of the adults took one of your siblings through a small green door. No explanations were given. You and your other sibling wait under the piercing gaze of another adult.

You hug your crying brother.

Your sister holds firmly your hand, giving you a faint smile as if to say everything will be alright. She can't know that, and you know she can't know, and she may know that.

You hear a scream coming from the green door.

You never heard your brother scream like that before.

The green door opens. An adult brings your sibling back, fresh tears in their eyes. Bandages cover their left ankle.

The adult grabs your arms. You hear protests, you are not sure if they come from your siblings or from yourself.

You are taken through the green door to an even smaller room. You can't see much, only ink and needles.

You cry out. 

* * *

 

You are taken somewhere else. You are tired, and confused, and your ankle hurts, and you want your parents.

Do your parents even know you are gone?

You can barely hear what the adults in front of you are saying. They say you were chosen for your abilities, and you should be happy, but you are too tired and confused and in pain to be happy.

They say they've been always watching you, and you can't explain why this makes you shiver.

They say they do a noble work, and that you will soon do it too.

They say a lot more. About knowledge and libraries and fires. About good and evil. And a lot of words that you've never heard before.

They don't say who "they" are, or what this noble work they do is.

For the first time, you don't ask. 

* * *

 

You don't feel tired and confused anymore. You are used to busy days, and unanswered questions. You suppose tired and confused is how the world normally is.

Your ankle doesn't hurt anymore. At first, you shivered every time you saw the black ink eye staring at you from your own skin. Now, it is another thing you are used to.

It's not only you. You see the same eye on the skin of your siblings, and sometimes you get a glimpse of its lines on the skins of your colleagues and instructors, if their pants rise or if their socks lower. You would have seen it before if your parents didn't insist on proper clothing even at home.

You know about that now too.

The eye also watches you from other places. From doors and walls. From book covers and letter signatures. From standard equipment and decorations. You even learned how to draw it. You learned not to fear it. You learned to welcome it. It marks allies and safe places. It means all the things you used to associate with two people you haven't seen in years.

You try not to think of your parents. You try not to think of the secrets they hid. You try not to miss them because you don't know if you will see them again.

You can barely remember your parents, and you treasure every story your siblings tell you, late at night, past curfew time.

No one told you, but you learned a bitter truth: volunteers don't have families. They have only tutors and instructors and associates.

You are a volunteer too.

Sometimes you don't even feel like a person. Instead of a name, they call by a letter, and like letters join together to form words, it's like you are just a small piece of something bigger, meaningless on your own (unless you are A, or I). But these thoughts make your head hurt, so you avoid them.

Most times, you enjoy your new life. You read books too thick and use words too big for your age. You learn and use codes. You can study whatever interests you, be it literature or mechanics or theatre or cinema, or journalism or languages or any art or science. You met other kids like you, some of which are now your good friends (associates). Your siblings are not in the same classes or dorms with you, but you can still meet. In secret, at night. It doesn't matter, you are becoming good with secrets.

You know you are far away from where you were born, though not exactly how far. Your instructors tell stories of all sort of places, places you may get to visit once you graduate. Some of your instructors are harsh, some are kind. Some have known your family since before you were born. They are intelligent, but not very observant, you notice. It's not hard to do something behind their backs. You and your friends often do.

Sometimes, you can see something in their eyes. Something that you don't understand but that looks strangely familiar.

You wonder if you will be like this when you are an adult too.

When you are an adult. When you graduate. When you are a full volunteer and go back to the world behind the academy's walls.

You are learning how to do a noble work. You are learning, as they say, to make the world a quiet place. 

* * *

 

You are scared again, but also excited. Scared, because another phase of your life ended and you are now about to leave what was your whole world for years behind.

(The academy is not your home, you remind yourself, and the volunteers are not your family.)

(Volunteers don't have families.)

Excited because you are finally going to use all your knowledge to do some real noble work. You are full of ideas and hopes. You are full of confidence. You know that knowledge and truth are strong things, and armed with them you can face anything.

You don't say goodbye to your friends. You know you are meeting again soon. 

* * *

 

You don't know anything. You thought you knew, but you didn't.

You were wrong. You have always been wrong.

Nothing is as you thought, and nothing went as you thought it would.

You are alone now.

You are not exactly alone, but you feel alone.

You have questions no one will answer.

You don't know this is just the beginning.

You are not a child anymore. 

* * *

 

You don't remember when you first heard it. Maybe you heard the word whispered among the adults during your training days. You didn't know what it meant back then.

You think you know now.

Just as there is good and noble, you could guess there was evil and wicked.

You knew VFD had enemies. You never had a name for them.

But it is a forbidden word.

It is worse than a curse, worse than a disease, worse than a plague.

If the volunteers were firefighters, it was only natural the enemies were _firestarters_. 

* * *

 

You thought you knew what "schism" meant. You thought it meant "a division of a previously united group of people into two or more oppositional parties".

You didn't know it meant your favorite instructor was an enemy now.

You didn't know it meant your favorite coffee shop was now ashes.

You didn't know it meant having to run away and hide even though you did nothing wrong.

You didn't know it meant everyone looking at each other with suspicion in their eyes.

You didn't know it meant you wouldn't see your siblings for years.

You didn't know it meant anyone could become an enemy at any time.

You didn't know it meant you couldn't trust your friends- no, not friends, your associates. No one could be considered a friend.

You didn't know it meant war.

You didn't know it meant noble isn't enough. 

* * *

 

You went back to your childhood home once. It was no more.

Your parents were long gone.

A mysterious accident.

Poisoned.

Missing.

A fire...

(How could there have been a fire? Weren't they firefighters too? Hadn't they, like you, trained so long to put out a fire, to escape a fire?)

Nothing was the same. It felt familiar, but not like home.

Volunteers don't have a home.

You don't go back there again.

You don't hear from your friends - associates - often. They are scattered, fighting on different fronts. The times are dangerous.

You work hard to be useful too.

You write codes that can be sent safely. In letters, in the papers, on stage, in movies.

You gather evidence against your enemies.

You help train a new generation, though it is hard to get new volunteers when the organization is in chaos.

You hide secret objects in secret places.

You study and research.

You offer all you have. Your knowledge, your money, your work, your time, your life.

It has to be enough. 

* * *

 

You are filled with the same thrill you felt as a child when you passed secret messages in class. The thrill of doing something forbidden, something that could get you in trouble for.

But you are not a child anymore, and this trouble is a lot more dangerous.

The small box feels heavier than it is.

It's not a big deal. It's just an object, just a tool. Holding it does not make you wicked. Using it does not make you wicked.

There are many legitimate reasons for a volunteer to have matches. It could be cold, or they could be hungry. But you are not about to light a fireplace or to prepare a delicious meal. Maybe it's why you feel so guilty as you light the flame.

You are not about to destroy anything, you remind yourself. You are not one of them. You will never be like them.

You are only curious. Fire has always fascinated you. Before it meant evil and destruction and ignorance, it was only beautiful and powerful and hot.

You are tired of feeling powerless as the world crumbles around you.

You watch the flame, and you want to be the flame.

To protect those you love.

To destroy, yeah, maybe even to destroy those who hurt you.

The flame descends until it reaches your finger. Startled, you drop the match.

You remember why fire is so dangerous. 

* * *

 

You realize you have always expected the adults to solve everything.

The adults are gone. Your tutor and your instructors, your parents and everyone else. They are all gone.

You are the adult now.

Daily you hear reports of associates dying or going missing or turning to the other side. Sometimes you wonder how one can go on when bad news comes so often.

You try to stay as distant of all as possible.

You work twice as hard.

You research.

You write.

You catalog.

You still have hope. Your hope is a familiar handwriting, a pair of eyes you catch from around the room, a soft touch hidden in the night.

You love.

The world is an awful place, but if a thing as beautiful as love still exists, you can still have hope.

You think the war will end. You think you will marry the one you love. You think of the beautiful children you will have, with your eyes and their smile, or their eyes and your smile, or neither.

(Even though it has been a while since either of you ever smiled a true smile without worry creeping behind it. You swear your children won't go through it.)

Your children will grow up in a quieter world. You are making the world quieter for them. 

* * *

 

It's not arson. You had no other choice. It's not like you planned it.

It's not murder. It was an enemy pointing a harpoon gun at your partner, and all your fighting training suddenly came back at once and your body moved on its own. There's blood in your hands, and your partner looks at you as if they don't recognize you.

You're not wicked. You are just in the middle of a war.

You've lost too much to this war already. You're tired of just watching and waiting.

You will do whatever it takes to win this war.

If it means matches and knives and guns, so be it.

If it means lies and blackmail, so be it.

If it means an unseen deadly poison, so be it.

If it means fighting fire with fire, so be it. 

* * *

 

You cry alone.

Reading has never been your thing, despite what they taught you.

(They can teach you anything, it doesn't mean you learn, an associate once said.)

But the answers you sought were written, as everything in this association, and you had to read.

Paper is so easy to hide and so easy to lose and so flammable. You guess you should be thankful the organization prepared for that.

But nothing prepared you for what you read.

It's like a knife on your back. You weep, weep for the family you lost, and for something else you feel you are losing right now. There's also rage in your tears, rage for the lies and the secrets they kept for so long.

You had believed what they told you, every word of it. It had been nice, believing you were special, believing you were a part of something.

You had followed everything they said. You had believed they knew the path to nobleness. You had believed they were noble and that being one of them made you noble too.

You don't even know what noble is anymore.

They were supposed to stop fires, not start them. They were supposed to save, not kill. They were supposed to preserve, not destroy.

They took everything from you. They took your money and the people you loved, your time and your work, your childhood and your innocence.

You have a feeling that once you stopped being useful, they would take your life as well.

You never chose to be a volunteer. This life was given to you for reasons you never understood, and still don't understand.

You don't want this. You want to get away, to run away to a place where they can never find you.

(You know such a place doesn't exist. They have eyes everywhere.)

You want back what they took from you.

You want them to pay for taking it from you.

In a fit of fury, you throw the papers into the fireplace. They are the only proofs of the wrongs the organization did to you, to your family.

You know they wouldn't help, anyway. VFD has members in the judiciary system, in the press, everywhere. Manipulating information is what they do best.

If you want something done, you must do it with your own hands.

You watch the flames consuming the papers. Paper can't destroy VFD. There's only one thing that can.

It's fire. 

* * *

 

There are no signs of the war ending.

You don't even know what it is about anymore.

You thought you were fighting for the greater good. Sometimes, you feel as wicked as your enemies.

Maybe you are already one of them.

Like your brother.

Like your lover.

You leave as far as you can. Away from the flames.

You leave the city.

You leave the country.

You still work with all you got.

You see a coded message in the papers, and you ignore it.

You hear a cry for help. You pretend not to hear.

This war took so much from you already. You won't let it take any more.

You fight to bring the traitors to justice.

You fight to protect your siblings.

You fight to protect your friends.

You hide to protect yourself.

You hide to protect the family you will have.

You don't understand your associates' reasons.

You don't understand why they are destroying what they once vowed to protect.

You don't understand why they keep risking their lives in a fight they will lose.

You don't understand how they can step aside and pretend they are not a part of it.

You don't understand you are all not as different as you think.

A newspaper sits on your desk, with words you wished you would never have to read.

The longest letter you ever saw sits on your bed, tear-stained.

An associate once said bad news are worse when they were written. He was right.

The future is not clearer than the smoke on the horizon. 

* * *

 

Liking it or not, you are a part of this story, and you can't get away. The ink VFD left on your ankle is as permanent as the stain it left on your life.

You may run and you may hide, but the eye is always watching you.

For a while, it seems like you can finally have a peaceful life. But trouble comes back. It always comes back.

It comes back as news you didn't expect to hear.

It comes back as a disguised figure knocking on your door. A figure you welcome into your home. You should know better.

It comes back through a hidden door.

It comes back holding a box of matches and a gallon of gasoline.

You were never really safe.

You are brought back to a war you didn't start, but that you contributed to.

You never chose to be a volunteer, and for a long time, all you did was following orders. But your actions were your own and maybe this is time to pay for them. You don't run away from them.

You tried to be noble, and you hope that was enough.

You also killed and destroyed and hurt.

And maybe, given the chance, you would do it all again.

You do not forgive the hand that kills you. You understand though. That's what hurts the most. You look into their eyes and you know it could have been you.

It could have been any of you.

But you did your best, and they didn't even try. That's the difference.

You think of the ones you are leaving behind, and the ones you've let down. Maybe you could have done better.

You think of the children. You hope someone will take care of them.

You think of the ones you have lost. Maybe you will see them again soon.

You close your eyes. For the first time, the world is quiet. 

* * *

 

It's quiet, and you know why. There's nothing out there.

It's over, isn't it? The last secret has burned, and VFD was wiped out of existence. Firefighters and firestarters alike, they are all gone.

You don't believe they are all dead, of course. You are still alive, and just like you, there may be others.

But VFD is gone, with its secrets and symbols and institutions.

You ask yourself what it was all for. All the sacrifices, all the pain. The sleepless nights filled with nightmarish visions. The burden you will carry to the end of your life.

All that's left are ruins and a story soon to be forgotten.

They deserved better. Your associates. Your friends. Your family.

The world goes on without them.

You see buildings being erected over the ashes. You see nature claiming its domain back. You see the world slowly forgetting.

You send letters without hoping for a reply.

There's still treachery and evil in the world, and you have a feeling there will always be. There are also still brave people willing to fight it.

The story is still not over.

Maybe there is still something you can do. 

* * *

 

The world is never quiet. You just need to listen closely, as you did that night long ago.

There's always something out there.

VFD as you knew it is gone, and it may never come back. That may be a good thing.

It was never about the secrets and symbols and institutions. It was about doing good, and about creating and preserving knowledge. There will always be people willing to do that.

You have finished your last mission as a volunteer. Fulfilled your last promise.

Maybe now you can have a calm life.

You laugh at the idea. You never had a calm life. You wouldn't even know how to do it. The people you had wished to share a calm life with are long gone.

You think the story is over, and now there's only an epilogue left.

You find out you are wrong when you see a familiar face in a crowd. A face of someone you once knew but also of someone new. A young face, but with tired eyes. Eyes that have seen so much. Like yours when you were that age.

The story is not over. It will never be.

Though the part you play in it will be smaller from now on. It is not your story anymore.

The mark VFD left is permanent. It reaches even the children who never knew it in its full glory. The children who grew up in its ruins.

It's up to them now. They are the ones who will build its future, if there is to be a future.

They will make their own choices and their own mistakes. They will tell their own lies and hide their own secrets.

You hope they will do better than your generation did.

You hope their world will be quieter than yours.


End file.
